Of War and Peace

I go to war roughly once a month. Sometimes not even that.

It all depends on the airflow when my crew lands in Germany. Sometimes we go to war. Sometimes we go home. If all the planes are heading west, we get 16 hours off and then we head home.

During my last trip, we went to war.

Our mission was bound for Afghanistan, with an aerial refueling on the way down. We had a full load of cargo and as much fuel as we could carry. But it would not be enough to make it back, so we'd need the tanker and even a little more fuel from the airbase in Afghanistan.

It was quite a heavyweight takeoff out of Germany and the flight was uneventful until we arrived at our air refueling track. There was weather in the area - clouds, turbulence, and even some thunderstorms - but we managed to break out of the weather just above minimums in order to save us from diverting to an en route airfield for additional fuel.

I closed in on the tanker with blue sheets of St. Elmo's Fire dancing across the windscreen in front of my face. Even as I crept to within 50 feet of the tanker, occasional flashes of raw white electricity arced across the windscreen. But then as I pulled to within 12 feet of the tanker, it stopped, leaving me free to refuel without distraction. Seconds later, the tanker's refueling boom clunked into the refueling receptacle on the top of the plane and fuel began flowing into our tanks.

With enough fuel to continue our flight, we parted ways with the tanker and continued to our destination. As we crossed the Afghanistan border, we armed our aircraft's defensive systems, put on our flak vests, and placed armor plating in our seats. It was still dark when we arrived, but our night vision goggles allowed us to visually acquire the snow covered peaks of Afghanistan as we descended, our darkened aircraft all but invisible to prying eyes in the early morning hours.

It was a textbook landing and we taxiied to the ramp where our cargo was quickly downloaded. They had outbound cargo for us, so we had to determine if a safe takeoff was possible. The airfield lies in a valley ringed with jagged peaks, so it is imperative to get the weight and balance calculation absolutely correct. As heavy as we were, if we lost an engine, we would have very little climb performance to make it over the peaks.

Dawn came, revealing the magnificence of the Afghan mountains adorned in their winter splendor. If Afghanistan could wean itself from tribal warfare and its opium-based economy, it would have a goldmine as an extreme skiing destination. The amount of untouched powder and untracked bowls left the skier in me saddened for the lost opportunity.

We safely made the takeoff and the climb over the snowy peaks was uneventful. Soon, the war was behind us for another month. As the flak vests and armor was put away, our minds turned to the peace waiting for us in Germany.

But what of the peace for the people of Afghanistan? Or in Iraq? Should it be fair that my war lasts but three hours once a month? How about the American men and women fighting extremism down there on a daily basis? How can peace be obtained by all?

I'll try to answer these questions over the next few days.